25 Aug 2015

Darker nights spill ink across the sky and through gaps in the fences in the backyards of our houses. Darker nights spill ink that flows through the windows and blooms like flowers over all of the walls before falling like dying petals through the cracks in the floorboards to tell the basement a story about the summer that we lost and the winter that will come. Darker and darker still.


22 Jul 2014

The wind doesn't blow anymore. The wind doesn't blow and the trees can't breathe. And the heat will turn them into ash as the sun rises and falls, setting fire to the clouds that circle our heads and scramble our thoughts, dulling the senses, blurring the days into each other as we sit on our back steps, on our grass, on our walls, on our pavements, cross-legged, knees and ankles pricked with grit and dust and ash from the sky. Everything bleached with light, everything neon, everything harsh.

These days are long, they end at 11 and start again by 3. Blues through the window getting bluer by the hour, trailing the ocean into the night, headlights and searchlights and nightlights. Heartbeat in my hand. Static in my throat. The night air is never still, will never be still, it is more alive than you or I, it pulses, it cackles, it screeches like cats. In summer it sings to you from car radios and house parties, 5am, no varnish, no lies, taking off it's make-up to show you the other side of night. The tired side, the raw side, running with the wolves at dawn. Ear to the ground, listen for the sound of the sun trying to break through from where it was buried. Listen for the sound of Ophelia in the water, as we dive out of our windows and drown in bluest sky, reflections of each other, while the stars just sigh.


16 Feb 2014

In a fever, in a dream, in a haze. I saw the moon in an unfamiliar place, it was drinking the afternoon in until there was nothing left but darkness. The night always hums, the humming turns into a deafening silence as more and more people stop shuffling around their apartments or watching late night television with the flickering pictures lighting up the walls while the shadows come out to play.

Soon their dreams will cast a spell on them and they will be lost to the world, but we, we are the blue moon club. The secret society of sleepless shoegazers. With blue moons under our eyes strong enough to control the wildest tides. We catalogue our books until 3am. We play our guitars with wonky notes and tangle our tongues around nonsensical lyrics. We stare at the stars, counting, hoping for more to appear and if they do we'll make a note and whisper between ourselves because we know a secret about the heavens, and well, that's just as heavenly as it gets.

But the longer we stay the colder we grow and the cold will rattle our sleepy bones. Then we know it is time to go home.


30 Jan 2014

Plants grew, fires burned, stars fell.

But the moons have been kind as they crawled across the sky. They kissed our closed eyelids and made us shine from the inside, and the sun poured itself through the clouds and trickled into our daydreams. The trees laughed. Slowly shadows were pierced with light, tiny pinpricks that bloomed into fireworks, dismantling the darkness with flowers made out of sparks.

And all the birds sang "Fools gold, until it glows."

strange days

25 Sep 2013

Everyday starts with mist now, which then evolves into gloom which tiptoes around the edges of darkness for a while until falling from the flat side of the earth into night. These are strange days indeed.


28 Jul 2013

Summer is slipping away now, slipping through the cracks like dust. Gold dust in the afternoon, moondust at night. It is pulling away like the tides.

These are the things I know. I know that Autumn is coming and I will feel like an animal that needs to curl up warmly and sleep until everything is light and living again. I know that nights will get darker and people will shout and scream in the street. I know that if you go outside in that short space of time between day and night and look at the sky it will feel so heavy that you won't be able to breathe, you could almost drown in it.

I know that singing in the dark leads to cracked broken voices and so whisperers will be born.
I know that dreams are for dreamers (and dreamers often lie).
I know things that shake me to my bones.


21 Jun 2013

It rained for days. The mist hung low over the backyards so much that we breathed it in and out like smoke and we walked around like a passion burned inside of us, but really the gloominess of mid-july enveloped us all in it's sticky grey arms and held us tight, fogging our minds. Apathy installed a lull that no amount of dancing could shake. Days of strawberry lollies with no heat to melt them and midday light with no shadows.

It seemed like the world was dreaming, that the tides had pulled us into an endless sleep with infinite skies and hearts that beat the rhythm of the songs that played to our ears alone while slowly the grass grew.

It was the summer of no sleep. No sleep and no dreams. A summer of 3am sounds and hours of the kind of silence that isn't really silent at all but instead hums, like static and whispers but quieter still. Pages turning under lamplight, papercuts, Elliott singing "drink up baby, look at the stars", thinking. Me and an old radio and the traffic in the night.

pink moon

28 Feb 2013

I wish I could be sad in a quiet and dignified way. An anaemic-looking girl huddled in the corner of a library kind of way. A person who looks as if they want to scream but dare not open their mouth in case they have unravelled entirely on the inside and if they do, their life will come spilling out, past their teeth, making a sad mess on their lovely shoes kind of way. A way that could never be eye to eye.

Instead I will look at you wild-eyed and tell you that we need an adventure, we need a dream, a plan, a map of oceans and a fleet of ships to carry all of my baggage and all of your charms. A fleet of ships to sail on my waves of inexplicable nausea, to stop this sinking feeling, and to hold up my heavy heart, so it won't be another treasure buried in a chest at the bottom of the sea.

I don't tell you the things you want to know, I don't tell you anything at all, because words can lose all meaning if you think of them for far too long. I couldn't give you something meaningless, you mean too much to me. I am pinning my heart to you, my hopes, my stars. I think that you will keep them with you so that I don't casually throw them like confetti into the wind. Scattered and spinning, carried away on strangers shoes. Becoming lost mostly, I think. Lost.
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